


Bite the Bullet

by MadisonTheGeek



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Family, Family Drama, Gen, Kid Winchesters (Supernatural), Teen Dean Winchester, Werewolves, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, first bullet wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadisonTheGeek/pseuds/MadisonTheGeek
Summary: Every kid in every family has milestones. For the Winchesters, being shot is definitely one. But when fourteen-year-old Dean receives his first bullet, it starts to remind the family of their problems.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Bite the Bullet

Dean didn’t stop the tears as they fell from his eyes. He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t this time. They stung his eyes as they fell unbidden onto the crumbled yellow leaves on the forest floor. His jaw shook. No, his entire body shook. He looked down at his leg. It was covered in dark, red, sticky blood that bubbled out from a gunshot wound that looked too small to cause so much pain.

He groaned and closed his eyes as he dropped his head against the leaf-covered ground. Through the darkness, he remembered Sam’s face, his folded arms, and the slightly over-exaggerated pout that had taken over him before Dean left...

Dean had just rolled his eyes at his brother’s fallen face. “We’re gonna be back before you know it,” he had said.

“I did the research. I should get to hunt with you too.” Sam stood in the kitchenette of the tiny motel room decorated with odd, eye-hurting purple wallpaper. His ragged jeans were vaguely too big for him and fell over his dirty sneakers in rolls, while his brown hair was overdue for a cut and scraped the tops of his shoulders. Hazel eyes gazed up at Dean in a nicely-practiced puppy dog stare. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sam.” Dean pulled his jacket over his flannel. “Dad wants you here.”

“Well, ask him!” Sam was at a near-whiny point, and any chance Dean had to prevent that, to prevent their father from getting angry and telling Sam to knock it off, he would take.

Dean gave a dark laugh. “I always ask him. I know it sucks, Sam, but you’re only ten. Dad just doesn't want you to get hurt. It’s dangerous out there.” John honked the horn from outside. Dean looked out to see his father sitting in the car waiting. “Just stay here, lock the doors, and don’t let anyone in,” Dean said as he ran out the door…

Dean opened his eyes. His vision settled blurrily to look at the trees and brush around him. Too dangerous. That was more true than ever now. The gunshot burned and seemed to hiss pain into his body. Through his watery eyes, Dean looked down once more at the bloody hole in his jeans. He moved his shaking hand to the wound and screamed in pain as he touched the hole. He bit down on his bottom lip to control himself, but that only produced the taste of iron seeping into his mouth.

He had been trained for this moment. He tried to remember that, but it was hard considering everything in him wanted to lay down and call it a day, or just wail in pain. Both, however, would result in his death; that was what John taught him. Instead, he quickly pulled off his flannel and lifted his leg with pain. He wrapped the flannel around his thigh and pulled, letting out another scream. He knew he shouldn’t, it was best to stay quiet, but he could not help it. It hurt more than anything he had ever felt.

He had been cut, thrown across the room, concussed... but never had he had a bleeding hole in his leg. Being in the family business meant Dean had seen his fair share of bullet holes before. It became normal to watch his father, Bobby, or Pastor Jim pull bullets out of their bodies, pour alcohol on their wounds, and stitch them back up again. Despite this normality, he had never been told how much it hurt to be shot.

He reached for his gun that he had dropped and, using one of the oak trees next to him, pulled himself back up, trying his hardest not to put too much pressure on his leg.

It was dark in the forest. Dean took deep, calculated breaths through the pain and pulled his flashlight out of his pocket, trying to reorient himself. He looked around slowly and then took another deep breath before running in the direction the werewolf had gone.

He stumbled on his leg, but he could practically hear his father’s voice telling him to suck it up. He slowly picked up his hobbling speed, trying to be as stealthy as he could.

He didn’t stop running as he tried to figure out exactly what happened. The best hunters assessed their mistakes and learned from them, or they quickly ended up dead, that’s what his father always said. And John Winchester? Well, he was the best god damned hunter in the whole world. 

Yet, that bullet seemed to have cut through more than his skin and leg muscle. It was as if the bullet had cut through time and thought. One minute, Dean had been running after the werewolf, who had been straight ahead of him. The next he was on the ground, screaming in pain.

He couldn’t understand why the wolf just left him there. His father had told him that monsters had no mercy, they didn’t leave their attackers bleeding out in the woods, they finished the kill. Perhaps the werewolf thought the bullet landed somewhere fatal. But Dean couldn’t see him being that stupid.

Dean hobbled through the woods as fast as his bleeding leg could carry him. When he heard the rustling, he quickly flicked off his flashlight and secured his gun with both hands, ready to fire. He walked stealthy, toe-heal, but it was hard to be quiet on the forest’s floor.

He peered through the trees into a small clearing, the full moon providing plenty of light for him to see the scuffle going down between the second wolf and his father.

John’s gun was at the ready when, from the shadows, Dean saw the wolf he had followed. John was too busy fending off the other one. He did not even seem to register the one that came from behind, hitting him over the head with his gun.

“Dad!” Dean pulled up his gun, but the wolves were in the wrong position for a heart shot.

The first wolf aimed his own gun at Dean. Dean had to recalculate; he had never seen a werewolf with a gun before.

The second wolf picked up John’s gun, which had fallen from his slack hand when he had crumbled to the floor with a head wound. The wolves had no claws to prevent them from pulling the triggers. The only indication of their monster nature was their glowing, yellow eyes and their barred, fanged teeth.

The wolf held his weapon to John’s head. “Shoot him, Cal,” Dean heard him call.

“He’s just a kid.”

Dean tightened his shaking hand on his gun but still didn’t shoot, his eyes drifting to his father being held at gunpoint by the unnamed werewolf. 

“Oh, so killing a kid’s too far for you? You don’t want to shoot? Then catch the little bastard, we’ll make him one of us.” The wolf laughed. “Oh, I like that, a hunter’s kid becoming one of us.”

Dean had the slight want to blurt out he wasn’t a kid, but instead, he swallowed the blood in his mouth and took his shot. The werewolf named Cal fell to the ground, the silver bullet hit true in his heart. The second wolf put his gun closer to John’s head. Dean turned on him as he limped closer.

“Any closer, I’ll put a bullet in your father’s head.”

Dean stopped, watching the wolf. 

“Drop the gun.” 

Dean couldn’t see any way around it. The werewolf would certainly not hesitate to shoot his father in the head, and Dean wasn’t a good enough shot to try and shoot the wolf without hitting his father. He was about to obey when, suddenly, John’s head went back violently. He hit the werewolf hard, causing him to fall backwards. John pulled his gun free from his hand. Dean heard the gunshot ring through the woods. He flinched at the sound. He let out a sigh of relief when the second body hit the ground.

John turned to him. “Dean!” It wasn’t John’s usual yell, filled with anger. Instead, this one was full of concern.

“I’m okay, Dad,” Dean reassured. He was pretty sure his leg had gone numb. 

John shook his head. “We gotta get you back to the car.”

***

“I’m gonna have to take the bullet out.” John had the same hard voice as usual, any concern seemed to have drained away.

Dean was propped up in the back seat of the Impala. He felt bad for the blood that was leaking onto her black seats. John, for once, didn’t seem to care.

“Bite down on this.” John handed Dean a rolled-up old rag. He put it in his mouth and bit down hard.

Dean’s head went up, and he groaned in pain when John stuck a pair of tweezers into the hole in his leg. When Dean looked back at John, he had a smile on his face, holding up a small, copper-colored bullet, dripping with red blood, between his index finger and thumb.

John lightly hit Dean’s shoulder. “First bullet, son,” he said in an amused tone.

Dean spit out the rag, only to find another scream echoing from his mouth; John had poured alcohol on his wound.

When Dean opened his eyes from the pain, John was grimacing. His dark eyes had a sadness in them, but not the usual sadness. Dean had associated this look that he now saw in his father with pity, with the undertones of guilt. It was something Dean often saw reflect in his father’s eyes when he got back from talking with friends and family of victims.

Dean stared at him. He couldn’t quite figure it out. John certainly didn’t feel bad for the dead werewolves, which meant this sorrowful look was directed at Dean himself. Dean had never seen his father look that way to him. He didn’t like it.

“Good as new,” John announced when he had finished stitching Dean’s thigh back together.

“Okay.” Dean motioned to get up, but his father’s hands stopped him.

“You’re going back to the motel.”

Dean wrinkled his face in confusion. “But we have to take care of the bodies.”

“I’ll come back, do it myself.”

John’s tone was flat. Dean couldn’t help but think he had somehow failed, that his father was disappointed. But he knew better than to disobey. “What about the blood?”

John didn’t answer; he only turned away. Dean swallowed the shame. His father was simmering with anger. He had failed him… again.

***

John watched the road ahead through the orange headlights of his aging car. He looked over to his son lying against the window with his freshly bandaged leg. He was still small. Fourteen, yes, but still a boy. His clothes, like always, were just slightly too big. Dean’s dirty, sandy hair fell onto his forehead, his face still covered with freckles, his dirty brown jacket covering him.

This boy, his son, had been shot today. Most kids his age were trying to figure out how to ask out girls and worrying whether or not they made the basketball team, but his son had been shot in the leg, by a werewolf no less.

There had been something incredibly frightening looking up to his son in the moonlight. With a gun in his hand and blood leaking from his leg, he suddenly looked much older than a young boy should look. And then Dean saying he was fine, like this was normal, like this was somehow expected. That was what cut into John’s chest and tore something away, replacing it with anger.

John sighed, staring back at the road. It was moments like these when John wondered what the hell he was doing. His son had risked his life today and shot someone square in the chest. What kind of life was that for a boy?

He wondered what Mary would say if she was there. She would be pissed. Mary had always been hard-headed and full of fire. She would have bit John’s head off, told him how recklessly stupid he had been, screamed that their son now had a bullet wound. Yet, through it all, she would have been there to care for them, and she would’ve been right.

John gave a bittersweet smile at the thoughts of his long dead wife. He suddenly had the urge to throw something and scream. Even a decade later, he still couldn’t stand the realization that she was gone. His mind still wandered back to her several times in the day. But that was the truth. Mary was dead.

Dean knew what he needed to do to survive, as did Sam. John settled on the idea that this wasn’t a choice for him; this was what he had to do. When Mary’s killer was permanently destroyed, then Dean could worry about trivial things, like girlfriends. John clenched his jaw. His son was alive tonight for one reason, because John had trained him, and wasn’t that enough?

***

Sam opened up the motel room door once John had given their “safety knock”. His eyes were wide with excitement as he stared up at his father and older brother. It melted away into fear when he saw Dean’s bandaged leg. “What happened?”

John and Dean shuffled inside. Dean stopped next to his brother. He lifted up the now clean bullet and gave a wicked smile. “This was in my leg!”

A spark ignited in Sam’s eyes. He lifted to touch the bullet. “Woah,” he whispered.

“Come on, I’ll tell you everything.” Dean shuffled his brother to the motel’s tiny couch, watching his father, wondering what he was supposed to do to make up from his mistake.

John had chosen a beer from the fridge and turned back to his oldest son. “I gotta go back for the bodies.” John walked to the door. “Open this for no one but me, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys answered in unison.

When John was gone, Dean settled himself next to his brother on the couch and let himself relax a little.

Sam was smiling up at him. “Tell me everything.”

Dean recounted the hunt’s events to his little brother, who stared up at him with wide eyes as he told it, as if it was some enticing legend. Dean left out how many times he had screamed and how he had cried and maybe painted himself slightly more heroic.

After the story was finished, Sam had fallen asleep on the couch. Not too long ago he would fall asleep with his head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s arm around him, but Sam was getting too old for that now. He turned away from his brother and rested his head on the armrest.

Dean sat there, his eyes fluttering closed as he waited for his father. When he at last opened the door for him, he smelled faintly of strong alcohol. Dean wondered if his father had raided whatever was in the trunk, or if he had stopped by some bar.

John didn’t look at his sons as he stumbled onto one of the beds. He was asleep in seconds. Dean stood in the tiny kitchenette alone, balancing on his good leg, and staring at his drunk father, watching his chest move up and down. He wished that he would stay up for a bit, watch some TV, just let him explain. Explain that he didn’t see the wolf coming, that it had been an accident.

Dean pushed away the thoughts. There were no excuses. He would just have to do better next time. As for John, he was saving the world from evil; he didn’t have time to sit around comforting his son. He shouldn’t need to either. It was a selfish thought that Dean pushed to the back of his mind. 

Instead of taking over the other bed, Dean settled in on the couch, next to his sleeping brother. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. That night he dreamt strange dreams full of fleeting faces, blood, and gunshots. He barely remembered them when his eyes flickered open the next morning.


End file.
